


Rumple & the Real Girl

by nerdrumple



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sex Doll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdrumple/pseuds/nerdrumple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumple is shocked when a strange package arrives at his shop - inside is a sex doll, and her name is Belle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not sorry.

Gold sniffed disapprovingly at the elongated crate greeting his shop door. "What exactly is this?" he asked.

"A shipment," Leroy grunted. "That you have to sign for." He held out a clipboard, a white sheet of paper bloated with words and a dangling pen staring back at Gold. Both waited patiently for him to make up his mind.

Leroy had the crate upright on a hand cart, and the longer he held it the less he was able to hide the strain of hauling the thing. The crate was simply enormous, taller and wider than himself and casting a long shadow over the door frame and _would you just sign the damn papers and tell me where you want this thing?_ A new thought occurred to Gold; it looked like a coffin.

Gold sighed and picked up the pen, signing swiftly while muttering directions to Leroy. He enjoyed watching the man tuck the clipboard under his arm with poor effort as he started his hulking journey. He wheeled around the perimeter of Gold’s shop to the back, straining the entire way with tight lips and whitening knuckles. Gold offered him no acknowledgment when the thing was successfully dumped into his back room, taking up what little space had been available.

"You want me to come by and pick up the crate later?" Leroy asked. Gold bit back a sneer, favoring his calm mask for the moment. The man clearly wanted to know what was in the crate just as badly as he did, and Gold wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. He'd already let slip that he wasn't expecting the thing.

"No need for your services, thank you," he replied curtly.

With that Leroy was dismissed, though he lingered a second longer than necessary. He grunted again, wheeling his significantly lighter load away. He walked slowly as if it were still heavy though, tossing back a look or two.

Gold waited until the man had loaded himself into his truck and disappeared. And he waited a moment longer, eyeing the crate carefully. If there was something Gold excelled at, it was waiting. Patience was his greatest virtue, if not his only one. This instance, however, felt like the crate was waiting for him.

_A coffin,_ he kept thinking.

For all the world to see, Gold carried a practiced mask of indifference. But he'd worn it for so long that it seemed he'd forgotten just what it was he was trying to hide. Lately it felt like he was hiding nothing, that a giant empty room was all that lay inside him, cobwebs creeping over each other.

This wouldn't be the first time he'd received an ill-conceived prank by mail, and it probably wouldn't be the last. But just what kind of prank was this?

He ran a hand over the crate, the absence of a return address not lost on him. The paperwork hadn't indicated a clear one either, just a PO Box, California somewhere. He doubted anything terribly dangerous was inside. Surely not.

Or perhaps his curiosity was taking precedence over any veil of safety he felt in the moment. Or perhaps he simply didn't care anymore.

It wasn't as though he'd never received shipments in ostentatious crates before. His shop _did_ contain an assortment of oddities. He had the tools handy to open the thing, but hadn't had to use them in a long time. An impact nail puller was around somewhere, but he opted for the small, cat's paw-ended crowbar he had resting in a more readily available location. He pulled up a stool. With calm precision and a strength that belied his lithe frame, he set to work.

_A coffin, a coffin, a coffin,_ he thought.

His eyebrows rose. _A mannequin,_ he thought.

It was the hair he saw first, and the smooth curve of a forehead. Packing peanuts squeaked against his fingers and tumbled to the floor as he dug, some clinging to the wood with stubborn static and some clinging to him, making him sneer in annoyance. Once through the white sea, brown wrapping and bubble wrap kept him from probing further. But with the quick slice of a knife and the diving of his hands, he soon had a girl in his arms.

_So beautiful,_ he thought. And for a brief moment something felt very right in his world.

He blinked. He shook his head. He frowned.

He didn't need a mannequin, hadn't ordered one. His thoughts drifted in this direction for approximately ten seconds; a safe road, one that would take a phone call or two to fix, until he looked at the mannequin's mouth. Mannequins didn't have mouths like hers.

The lips were parted, and they didn't reveal that solid barrier of white meant to imitate teeth. The mouth kept going, in and deeper, like a throat lay inside, like a tongue sat in waiting. He reached up his fingers and _God_ , they were shaking, and he touched the lips. They were hard plastic, surely, but they didn't feel that way. They felt velvety, they felt slightly plush. He pushed a finger inside, and, and, _God_ , the jaw moved, just a little, it had a moving jaw, and yes there was more inside, a mouth, a real mouth.

No, not _real_. He yanked his hand back.

He hoisted the girl up, suspicions whirring. He tore at the rest of the bubble wrap, the rest of the brown paper, white peanuts littering his shop without care. A girl, a girl, hair up in a twist of chestnut and walnut curls. Her skin felt soft and hard at the same time, her limbs stiff, her eyes looking at him like she just needed some simple assistance, _won't you help me?_ She was in some kind of funny black dress, webbing skimming all around, wider at her chest to reveal cleavage. Her breasts looked as though they would be a pleasant weight in his hands, and he scowled. The rest of the wrapping pushed away, he eyed the gentle curves of her hips and the short hem of her dress. He reached for it slowly, bunching the fabric in his hand and trying not to pull too hard.

He frowned at himself; what a pitiful lover he was being. She wore panties in an unattractive shade of electric green. He licked his lips and pushed a hand down the front of the fabric. Rounding over her smoothly, he crooked his finger and found exactly what he feared.

She wasn't a mannequin.

He'd been sent a sex doll.

His mouth went dry.

He fell back on his ass, palms barely catching him. She slumped forward in a terribly human way, hair unpinning on one side and falling down to cover her set expression, that slightly open mouth, and he gagged for air.

She wasn't of the blow-up variety, she was high end. She was costly materials, no expense spared to make her the closest thing to flesh and bone. She was everything necessary to compensate _real_ , to imitate _real_ , to come so close to _real_ he was convinced she'd breathe any moment. She’d felt real enough when his finger was inside her.

No, there was a complete lack of warmth there. He stood and grasped desperately for his cane.

He stumbled into his shop, angrily making his way to the front. He peered through the blinds. Was someone outside waiting, waiting to see him stomp and shake and yell? Waiting to laugh at him? Who in this town could possibly afford this costly of a ruse?

Only one person came to mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Madame Mayor had been whining about needing a new assistant, and now Gold had just the girl.

Though it had taken more than two shots of whiskey for him to build up the nerve to ask for Dove’s help in the matter. She wasn’t terribly heavy, but he had a limp, after all.

Dove, as always, offered the courtesy of silence when he saw the doll, no questions and no comments. He carried her out and buckled her up neatly in the car when Gold asked.

But not until Gold had made sure she was dressed the part.

Because he found the dress she arrived in distasteful. Alluring, but distasteful. It wasn't the hemline or the snug fit that repelled him, but the fabric. Polyester. Disgusting.

So he set about his shop to find her finer pieces of clothing, indulging in the splurge of all his _real girl_ deserved. Sliding silks, luxurious cashmeres, plunging chiffon necklines paired with perfectly tailored A-line skirts. Dove, standing near the back door patiently, surprised Gold by suggesting a peplum skirt instead. Gold hesitated, wondering if he was being made fun of. But the rise in Dove’s eyebrows was so eager that he acquiesced the request, which turned out to be the perfect complement to the demure black top he’d settled on with its lace collar. Just the right touch of sex for what the girl was.

Once she was situated in the backseat of the car, Gold smiled crookedly at his creation, feeling a similar sense of satisfaction flowing off of Dove where he stood beside him. Gold ran his fingers through the girl's recently brushed-out hair one last time as he made sure her seat belt was adjusted accordingly along her bust, noting how pleasantly _real_ her bosom felt as he did so. The thought had him pulling back with a tight mouth and narrowed eyes. He was allowing himself to indulge, and it was silly. It was time to set to his task of paying back the mayor, and put his fancy for playing dress-up aside.

They’d waited for the cloak of night before loading her into the car, and had of course brought the vehicle as near to the back door as possible. Discretion was of the utmost importance. And he waited for a night when he knew the Mayor would be at Sheriff Graham’s. He’d even indirectly arranged for Henry to spend the night with a friend, which had been the most complicated part of the scheme, but was nevertheless achieved through the right pawns. And getting into the home was no issue, as he had keys for each part of the house she’d previously tried to bar from him. If she knew, she’d have his head. But currently he was enjoying the prospect of having hers.

The job had been easy enough. Enter through the back, carry the doll to the Mayor’s office, arrange her just so. Nevermind the electric jolt Gold felt when the doll's hand haphazardly brushed his as Dove lifted her from the car. He shouldn’t have been standing so close, anyway.

The doll’s limbs were pliant to redirection, easy to pose so she looked like she was reviewing documents with a pen in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other. She sat in the mayor’s desk chair as though it were her personal throne. Gold directed Dove quietly, standing back towards the door to get a good view of just what the mayor would see the moment she walked in. Like your new assistant, Mayor?

Once satisfied with Dove’s work, Gold nodded and together they prepared to leave just as the doll slumped forward clumsily.

Her head bowed over the desk, and Gold felt his heart jump into his throat at how uneasy the sight looked. Her hair curtained her face and her back folded like she was crying. Dove needed no command, he walked back to the doll and calmly rearranged her into her original pose. But just as he moved away, she slumped forward again.

In a moment slightly out of character (or perhaps Gold didn’t know the man as well as he thought he did), Dove reached for the doll’s chin and tried to angle her face towards him, admonishing her in a kindly tone to stay put. But her face only angled far enough to look towards Gold, a direct stare with her blue eyes nearly flashing at him. Like she was pleading with him.

Something. Something was off. He swallowed hard.

When she slumped forward a third time, Gold released a growl of frustration to hide the squeak in the back of his throat. He waved Dove aside and moved forward to prop her up again himself. Touching her was the last thing he wanted to do; he didn’t need a repeat of the electricity he felt when she was removed from the car. But her hand had bumped forward again, scattering letters this time, and Dove knelt down to pick them up. Stacking them neatly, it was the top one that caught Gold’s eye.

The address of a familiar California PO Box.

An invoice, surely. Now he could finally see just which company had been involved. But the contents of the letter told him something far more interesting - the package was never meant to be sent to him. There had been a mix up, one the mayor was trying to take care of right away, but had clearly failed. Her attempts at rerouting the package had been ignored or simply dismissed by an apathetic party that didn’t see what the big deal was; as long as the package got to Storybrooke, the appropriate delivery man would handle the mistake.

But Leroy hadn’t.

Patient as ever, Dove stood with hands clasped, never asking what Gold’s dark chuckle meant. Gold offered him the letter.

A quick scan of the document led Dove to the same enlightening conclusion: the girl had been destined for the Mayor all along, and she was desperately trying to keep the doll, this girl, away from Gold.

“Looks like you’re coming back with us, dearie,” Gold said, suddenly feeling a spark of camaraderie with the girl as she’d been the one to alert him to the letter. Perhaps that was her purpose all along, he mused.

Through it all, through gathering the girl back up and loading her back into the car, through the giddiness of a new plan forming in Gold’s mind, a small fact the letter had also revealed kept bubbling up to the surface. A small thing, but it would keep him awake that night as he thought of the inanimate girl placed in the guest bedroom only two doors down from his own.

Her name was Belle.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a funny dream, really.

The girl ( _doll_ , he forced himself to correct) was wearing a blue linen dress and walking around his house with a feather duster. Upright on two able legs, reaching out with arms and delicate fingers to brush against the knick knacks of his home. No, not his home, some place much larger, much more grand. Neverending hallways as he trailed after her, where are you going, may I come too?

He was trying to play a game of indifference but failing, his feet kept following her. Chestnut curls no longer hiding her face, they were pulled back and he could see the curve of her neck and the pretty definition of her jawline. The girl, _doll_ , smiling and swaying her hips in a way that suggested she wasn’t even aware of the allure of her movement. But the way she batted her eyelashes while turning around, and the hand she placed delicately on his arm was most definitely calculated, surely.

Once she touched him, he roused from sleep with a jolt. Her _voice_ , she had spoken to him, what did she say? Her voice was soothing and pleasant and it made him angry that he’d heard it and angry that it was gone. Before he was aware of his actions he was tossing his covers aside and grabbing for his cane.

He lumbered down the hallway, something like anger and fear and anticipation dancing around him, and he threw open her door without so much as a knock. Why that courtesy even bothered to pass through his mind, he didn’t know. She wasn’t real. She wasn’t his real girl.

“You’re not real,” he repeated, only now aware that he’d already said it aloud twice. It was too dark to see the girl, but there her blue eyes were, glinting back at him, and he suddenly found himself frightened. Terrified. He threw the lights on in a fit, too bright and temporarily blinding him, but the girl swam back into focus easily.

She was propped up into a sitting position on the bed with pillows cradling her back. Why hadn’t Dove just laid her down? Her body was even angled to face him and her palms were up. Her expression held that terrible pleading look again and he shouted this time “ _You’re not real!_ ” and turned off the lights with a whack of his hand.

He managed to smash his thumb with his own palm and he cried out with a grunt of pain. The sudden sharpness felt like she’d rushed forward and slapped him. That image, that feeling, of her rising and suddenly rushing towards the door where he stood was both frightening and exhilarating so he slammed the door shut without so much as a goodbye.

“You’re not real,” he said again, in a way that sounded like he desperately wanted her to be.

In the morning, he saw the mayor.

She drifted into his shop as though everything was at ease. She even had a smile on her face. But he could see the grit underneath, the dirty little corners she was trying to hide away.

“Regina,” he said smoothly, not bothering to look up from his glass counter where a book on Japanese theatre occupied his interest.

She started with some nothing, no-matter chit chat before diving into the reason for her little visit.

“I hear you received quite an interesting package the other day.”

The smile on her face said that she expected a flinch from him, or a frown. Because to pretend the girl had been a prank after all would, of course, work very well for her. Sending the town miser something to keep him warm at night, what a laugh. He briefly wished for the thrill of his own prank of leaving the girl in her office; oh how her face would have looked!

He smiled. “Did I? Are you referring to the Fabergé eggs? They’re replicas, of course, if you had gotten your hopes up.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m referring to the large package, the one Leroy had difficulty hauling here.”

“I assure you his truck is capable of traveling long distances with heavy loads. I’m sure the package was of little trouble to him.”

“When he hauled it off the truck, then. Large thing. Tall as him, if not taller. What on earth did you order?” She accompanied the question with a toothy smile and a tilt of her head.

“Do you mean my new set of white oak Amish-crafted chairs? Those were a personal purchase, not antiques by any means. Such sturdy, reliable craftsmanship. You can order them online yourself, I’ll show you the site. ”

Her smile dropped and she licked her lips in an annoyed manner, ignoring his offer. “I was under the impression this was something far more exotic.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I _did_ just receive a shipment of two mounted Bengal tiger heads. Strange objects, I don’t like looking at them, myself. Why Regina, I didn’t know you had an interest in taxidermy!”

She was scowling now, unamused. She looked down at the book he’d carefully placed a finger on to hold his place and managed to see a photo that sparked her attention.

“Puppets, Gold?”

His face twitched, but he managed to keep his composure.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Bunraku. Traditional Japanese puppet theatre. Are you familiar?”

“I am. Some of those puppets need as many as three puppeteers to be operated, if I recall. Being as large as they are.”

“Yes, one for the right, one for the left, and one to control the feet. How smart you are, Regina!”

She rolled her eyes. “Some of them are so large they’re nearly lifelike. The size of a man.”

She had that glower of having gotten the best of him, or the assurance that she was about to finally pin him down, trap him in a corner. Had he not seen the letters Belle had pointed out to him on the mayor’s desk, Regina’s game would have worked. How cruel and embarrassing to send him such a thing! What a dried up old man you are, isn’t my prank funny?

She wanted her doll back, and though Gold was tempted to keep playing the game to see just how far she’d go, just what offer she’d put on the table, Gold instead offered her his traditional knowing smile.

“Or the size of a woman,” Gold replied. “You’re so knowledgeable on the subject. Perhaps you’d like me to obtain a puppet for you? Lifesize, as you say?”

She swallowed, losing a beat to their conversation, one they both felt. “Are you trying to pawn something off on me? What would I want with a lifesize puppet?” she said, expression careful.

“You see, that’s exactly what I’ve been asking myself. I can’t quite wrap my mind around it.”

A small bout of silence sat between them. Regina’s face fell slightly, realization coming slowly. She tried to keep her smile on her face but it grew absent-minded as her eyes turned away from him, gears turning. _He knows_ , her face read, or that’s what he thought it read, what he _wanted_ that glum expression on her face to mean.

“We’re so full of questions today,” he continued. “I get the feeling that you have something particular you want to ask me. Something you’re too afraid to get at. If I received something, let’s say, _that you didn’t want me to receive_ , I’d take it up with Sheriff Graham. Your usual Tuesday, Thursday night schedule would probably be a good time to bring up the matter.”

Her eyes widened while her brows narrowed. Quite the feat. “You’re not suggesting-”

“I’m not suggesting anything about your nightly activities if you’re not suggesting anything about a rogue package, dearie.”

For a brief moment the surprise was evident on her face. But she stood straight, and attempted a wicked smile that came off more like a bad taste was littering her mouth. “Perhaps it’s _your_ nightly activities that demand a thorough search, Gold. Something tells me you’re happy you received your . . . exotic package.”

Her threat was relevant, but he tried to dismiss it with a “Well, Bengal tigers _are_ terribly exciting.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer before she sauntered off, door giving off a pleasant chime as his most hated customer was about to breeze through it.

“Enjoy your puppet . . . book,” she couldn’t help calling back.

He chuckled though she couldn’t hear him, the effort being fruitless. It took him a moment after her exit for him to drop his mask and regain himself. He’d been on his toes, he’d kept his composure, bravo. But now that he was alone again, all those black feelings started to creep back in. A new plan had been cooking up inside him of how to best the mayor in this silly little situation they’d found themselves in, but he was starting to dismiss it.

Because before he left for work that morning, he’d gone into her room again, stood in front of her, and tried to understand what he was seeing.

The puppets in the book had clearly painted mouths on clearly painted faces. Their hands had clearly defined fingers on clearly defined hinges. Their feet could only walk when the puppeteer made them. Her mouth, on the other hand, appeared red and solid and warm. Her hands were so detailed they contained lines across her palms and the possibility of fingerprints. Her feet fit sweetly into the shoes he’d given her, buckled around her delicate ankles with care. When Dove had caught him caressing her calf he’d had the sense enough to blush.

He let out a breath he’d been holding longer than intended, and slammed the bunraku book shut. It wasn’t giving him any answers, anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

He’d been unable to avoid the room. In the mornings he’d peek in and say nothing, just look her over, make sure all was well. After work he’d join her on the bed, at her feet. Sometimes he’d look at her and sometimes he wouldn’t. She still wore the black top and peplum skirt Dove had helped picked out. He still found it lovely.

Sometimes he’d reach up and carefully readjust the clothing, adjust and readjust, careful not to skim her flesh ( _not yet_ , a voice deep inside of him said). Sometimes he’d talk to her, tell her about his day. The first time he did the words felt chalky and awkward; why am I talking to a doll? But he was alone, they were alone, he reasoned. I can talk all I like.

She can listen all she likes.

One night, closer to the sunset, he decided to lay her down on her back. So she could sleep more comfortably, he reasoned with himself. It would mean touching her beyond her fabrics.

The initial shock of the doll’s arrival had left him more angry inside than frightened, but now that Belle was home with him, she was starting to become normal, his new normal. She’d become something he anticipated, couldn’t wait to see. The cocoon of doubt was sloughing off, allowing his hands to move forward and make that first step, the one that would make all of this real. Touch.

He rested his cane carefully against the nightstand and took his usual seat at her feet. With them both sitting upright they seemed the same height, and he briefly entertained the idea of standing her up to see if he was correct. It seemed complicated enough to get her to lie down, so the former didn’t seem plausible without Dove’s assistance. And he would want such a moment to be private, anyway. Just him and Belle. That was starting to feel nice, the idea of the two of them, rather than the one of him he’d grown so used to.

He held his hand out, deliberately hovering over the top of her calf. He let his hand hang there, waiting for an electric jolt to join him to her, but none came. He looked up at her, her face no longer unnerving him after having so many ( _one-sided_ ) conversations with her. Her eyes never blinked and her lips were forever slightly parted, but he could pretend she was smiling at him reassuringly.

“Is this all right?” he asked quietly before bringing his palm down anyway. Her flesh didn’t feel like flesh but it wasn't off-putting, either. It wasn’t cold, that was strange. The texture was . . . velvety. He moved his hand up and down gently. No electric sparks, nothing to jolt him away. The feeling was warm this time, melting. Just that smooth velvet, a tangible welcome.

He stood up, ready to reposition her. The process was more difficult than he anticipated - she wasn’t terribly heavy, but she was deadweight. Such a solid thing. Once properly arranged on her back he took the liberty of smoothing down her hair. The chesnut waves had an alluring shine to them and he had no doubt that she'd been equipped with real human hair.

 _Real_.

He reached for her lips, touching them gently. That same velvet. They even had careful lines adorning them; the craftsmanship was amazing. He cleared his throat, feeling apprehension before he spoke.

“Belle,” he said, the first time he’d said her name out loud. It rang through the air clear and like a blessing. He hadn’t expected the ease saying her name would bring him.

He thought of angling her face towards him the way Dove had, he even grasped her chin. With firm fingers he felt her strange flesh and marveled at how she seemed to warm to his touch. He didn’t turn her to face him, but let his fingers trail down, down to her throat, down to her collarbone. He was trembling, and embarrassed for it. He’d been fantasizing about touching her, had been thinking too long of her as _real_ that he knew once he touched her, he’d be gone. And now he was.

“Belle,” he said again.

Her face was so well proportioned and her expression so soft that it was easy to pretend she was real. She looked so real.

“Who are you?” he asked quietly. “Why have you come to me?”

She didn’t answer, of course, and the questions left him feeling terribly empty. For a moment it all felt like a prank again, a laugh to pin on the old town miser. He had to remind himself that he was the one who had the upperhand in the situation.

“What does Regina want with you?” he asked softly, leaning forward to tuck a curl behind Belle’s ear. Perhaps the answer was straightforward. Belle was incredibly beautiful. Perhaps Regina wanted some fun that she wasn’t finding in the women of Storybrooke, or she feared what being caught in an affair with a living women would do to her reputation in a conservative town. But that didn’t feel like the answer.

Whatever the reason, Regina had been determined to keep Belle from him. A surge of possessiveness ran through him at the joy that Belle had found her way to him anyway.

“I’ll protect you,” he said, softly again, running his fingers through her hair.

It was hard to stop himself from touching once he’d started. The floodgates of permission had been opened, more from himself than from the _her_ he was imagining. Because he was the hardest obstacle to overcome in all this. Peeling away those layers of doubt and the preconceived notions of what was normal, _falling for a doll wasn’t normal, was it?_ He’d been so certain before, but now the line was blurring.

The trail felt safe now, the path between lips and collarbone, and he stroked gently, up and down. He couldn’t stop his damn hands from shaking, but the longer he stroked, the more firm he allowed his pressure to become, and the tremors were absorbed into Belle’s skin. Or whatever it was made of. It was nice that he was able to steady his fingers against her, like she wanted to ease the fear off of him, wanted to coax him into this slowly, reassuringly.

He shook his head, but didn’t let go.

He cupped her face. He swallowed hard and stared at her hard. He angled her so she was staring right back at him. This is it, he thought. Speak to me now, please.

Her eyes, he felt the life in them. They looked so real! It was so deliciously frightening, he forced himself to hold on to her, not to pull back, to _look at her_ while she _looked at him_. “Belle?” he said again.

God, had she blinked? No, he had, he had.

He let moments pass between them. When he finally let her go, he bunched his hands into fists in his lap, the fingers tingling as though sore.

He gave her one last long look before exiting the room. He shut the door, leaning his back against it and closing his eyes. He wanted to go back in.

I’m a fool, he thought. A fool.

It was time he understood just what Belle was.


	5. Chapter 5

He headed for his office, locking himself inside and letting the soft glow of his screen come to life. When the first website blared some embarrassing saxophone accompanied by a woman’s moan, he jolted and nearly knocked over his desk in his attempt to shut the thing up and quiet his own mounting embarrassment.

Sound safely muted, he squinted his eyes at the tawdry images in front of him. Naked dolls in deliberately exposed positions, no art or mystery to it. No clothes at all, necessary limbs spread to reveal the imitation of a slit. Some more realistic than others. They didn't remind him of his Belle, they made her seem demure and shy. Like she'd blush if she were to look over his shoulder now.

He read up on all the different kind materials. Latex, silicone, thermoplastic elastomer. Choose the face, choose the body proportions, choose the labia style, pubic hair or no? Removable mouths, vaginas, and anuses available for easier clean up. Water-based lubricant always recommended. And condoms to prevent the growth of bacteria where you aren’t able to clean properly.

_To prevent the spread of disease, please do not share your sex doll._

_But can I bathe and shower with my doll?_

_Yes, it can withstand heat up to 400 degrees._

_And it can sustain weight up to 400 pounds._

_Easily poseable, dolls are flexible for any (reasonable) position._

_The internal skeleton allows you to pose the fingers to maintain a grip as tight as you’d like, but do be careful._

_Hyper realism eyes available at an extra cost._

He watched a video of a doll being constructed. The face being stretched over a metallic skull, looking warped and bizarre until it was finally fitted and simply resembled a human girl. Some of the dolls looked like terrible drawings and some looked like true, real women, like his Belle. He watched as a designer placed their fingers inside a doll’s mouth, watched as a suction feature was activated and the lips actually closed around the fingers and sucked them.

 _The vagina and anus have similar functions. Customers have reported intense orgasms._ The scene left him queasy and aroused all at once. Another naked doll was placed on a bed and wrapped up in an electric blanket so a pleasant body heat would be present when the owner was ready to engage with his doll. Or her doll. _Please clean with our recommended renewal powder, as talcum powder has been implicated as a possible cause of ovarian cancer._

He sat back in his chair, turning off his computer with a defeated sigh. Reading up on sex dolls had done nothing to help him. He was left with an uneasy pit in his stomach. Because, after visiting the sites for purchase, he started reading the articles of _why_.  And the number one reason for the manufacturing of $5K, $10K, _($25K_ , _oh my!_ ) sex dolls wasn’t for perverted pleasure - blow up dolls were more cost effective for that pursuit. The production of near replicas of human companions, where money was no object, lay for the reason of alleviating loneliness.

And he was so, so lonely.

He knew he was already attributing a personality to Belle, though he wasn’t sure where it came from - well, his dreams, of course. Dreams of a sweet yet sassy girl with her matter-of-fact remarks followed by coquettish smiles, complete with teeth worrying her bottom lip, honestly worrying if her comments would upset him or if he’d see them for the kind jabs they were. He could never remember her words the next morning, could never remember what her voice sounded like. It was driving him mad.

He was acting like a fool. He _was_ a fool. He was an angry, bitter man, and he was allowing the charms of a _doll_ to affect him. He didn’t want a doll, he wanted real. He wanted the girl’s breath on his cheek, he wanted to surprise her by turning her around and pressing his chest to her back and pushing his nose into her hair and running his hands along her stomach. Where were these thoughts coming from? The longing for the imaginary girl and the arousal it tortured him with left him feeling so very dead, ready to crawl into a coffin and fall into that black sleep he sometimes longed for.

 _Coffin coffin coffin_. Oh, the crate! He’d asked Dove to dispose of it, and place any paperwork or extra items in a box for him at the shop. He had brought that box home and placed it in his office, in a corner to be regarded later. He’d already gone through the items, quick glances to confirm that, _yes_ , this was indeed a doll for sexual alleviation, then let them be.

He grabbed the box now and started sifting through the items with more precision this time. A cleaning kit, of course. Lubricant, yes, he remembered that. More lingerie. Pink lace, gaudily made. And then that long rod he’d found, the one that reminded him of Milah’s curling irons from so long ago. God, he didn’t want to think of her now.

The rod was a warming agent to be inserted into Belle when he was ready to follow after. He stared at the thing, thought of how easily her strange flesh warmed to his touch, and briefly fantasized about entering her; perhaps his own heat would eventually fill her and there would be no need for the damned curling iron. Surely his thrusts would . . .

He dropped the rod, threw it into the box. There was no way he was going to make use of the doll. There was no way he’d do that to Belle.

But the thoughts came anyway, making him terribly hard.

It’s a doll, he reasoned. This is exactly what they’re made for. She’s my Belle, he answered back, I simply can’t.

He rubbed at his trousers, the friction helping a little. He ran his fingers through his hair, down his face and back again until he resolved to give in to _some_ pleasure. He freed himself, leaning back in his chair and letting his head fall back. He thought of Belle, allowing his mind to come up with a living, breathing version of her lounging on his bed. Blood in her veins, flowing just as hot as his did now. He imagined her blinking up at him as he slowly raised her top, untucking it from her skirt and running his hands over her belly, her smile serene.

He thrust gently into his hand, finding arousal in his own soft flesh.

He imagined her mouth, opening and closing in soft sighs as he caressed her thighs, pulling her skirt up until she was exposed. Spreading her thighs, rubbing at her mound through her panties, those _stupid_ electric green panties, pushing a hand down the front of the fabric. Rounding over her smoothly, crooking his finger and entering her, back and forth, in and out, fucking her gently while she'd reach for his face and pull him down to her mouth and _then_

“Ah!” he cried out, hand tugging furiously at himself and he lost all art to his actions. The thought to cup his balls had sounded pleasant but he hadn’t even gotten that far. He bucked wildly and spilled himself at the thought of Belle’s red mouth, his sticky white substance coating his stomach in spurts.

He groaned and made his way slowly to the bathroom, awkward as he kept his shirt up and his pants down away from his mess. He cleaned himself up until he was reasonable-looking again. He gave his reflection a once-over, not impressed with what he saw. It wasn’t just an old man that stared back at him, but black eyes resolved to anger and a thin mouth resolved to loneliness. Would he ever kiss another woman again?

He shuffled back to his room where he slowly undressed and slid into a pair of rich fabric pajamas. He turned down the covers and his high thread count sheets and seeped into bed. At least, he thought about seeping. Instead he stood, wooden with his hand still raised holding the covers waiting for him to crawl inside. But he didn’t want to get inside.

He tossed the covers back down and extinguished the lights in his room. Quietly, carefully, as though the artifacts of his home were watching him, he headed for the sheets of the bed two doors down where a silicone girl lay in an eternal sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Site](http://sinthetics.com) for the most realistic sex dolls money can buy (nsfw, obviously)


End file.
